His deep chuckle puzzled her. “Believe me, girl. If this works as I hope, you will have repaid me in wealth beyond price. The debt I owe Niamh will be nothing compared to the one I will owe her daughter.”
She didn’t get a chance to question his odd remarks. He bade her follow him through the city to the royal palace or what was left of it. They traveled through a maze of narrow streets lit by a hunter’s moon and silent as crypts. Eyeless windows allowed glimpses into buildings swelling with a stygian darkness. Only the silver-gilt streets and the pale corona of light at Imogen’s feet kept them from being swallowed by deep night. Cededa’s fair hair shone like a beacon as she followed him deeper into the city’s heart.
Tineroth was a vast maze of avenues and courtyards, crumbling buildings and abandoned temples. After walking for nearly an hour, they came upon a high wall of smooth stone, cut so perfectly and stacked so tightly, Imogen didn’t think a sliver of human hair would fit through the spaces between the stones. They passed beneath an arch that led into another of the vast courtyards. Here a procession of statues encircled the yard, copies of those she’d passed on the bridge. Behind them, a broken palace rose, its roof topped by a coronet of spires, hints of their once graceful lines degraded by time and decay to jagged teeth that pierced the sky.
Sadness engulfed her at the sight. What had Tineroth been like in its glory? She imagined it in daylight, the grand structures whole and new, people moving to and fro on her now deserted streets. Imogen had lived a life of isolation with only a rare visit or two to the nearby townships. The crush of people on market day had made her break out in a sweat every time, but she’d been enamored by the life and bustle around her, so different from the quiet solitude of the cottage. How fantastic must this city have been so long ago.
A pair of iron gates, cast in a delicate filigree design that reminded Imogen of the enchanted pendant, hung skewed on twisted hinges. A gap between them allowed her and Cededa to pass through easily into the palace’s interior. Inside, a syrupy blackness snuffed out all light, including the pool of radiance beneath her. That prickling feeling of being watched intensified.
“Sire?” Her softly spoken call boomed in the suffocating stillness. She yelped at the sudden ghostly touch on her arm.
“Peace, Imogen. I’m here.”
As if his words broke a sleeping spell, flames erupted from torches lining lime-washed walls. The light beat back a hovering gloom to reveal a vast presentation chamber fallen to disuse. Dust blanketed every surface in a thick shroud. Tables and chairs lay overturned and scattered throughout the hall, as if a great brawl had erupted and the fighters used the furniture as weaponry. A grand throne, perched atop a pyramid of narrow stairs resided over the ruin. High above, the swoop of an arched ceiling, buttressed by massive wood beams, flickered and faded in the dance of shadows. Where the glass of tall windows once filtered light, only open sills remained, revealing the drift of gray clouds across the night sky.
“This was your home?”
“It is still my home.”
Imogen winced. Damn her and her careless tongue! She wasn’t used to conversing with others besides Niamh, and it showed. She bowed. “I meant no offense.”
“None taken.” He touched her arm again, and this time she didn’t automatically jerk away. “Follow me. There’s a chamber upstairs you can use while you’re here.”
He led her through the hall and up a spiral of stairs to a long gallery still roofed. Faded murals of landscapes and people decorated the walls. Torches flared to life as they passed, lit by unseen hands, and Imogen wondered how easy it was to get lost in the king’s palace. They finally stopped before a set of ornately carved doors that opened silently at Cededa’s touch.
More torches lit, and Imogen gasped at the neglected splendor before her. More murals and chipped gilt decorated the walls and wood molding. Scenes of palace life captured the eye, chief among them scenes of a wedding between a royal bride and a Tineroth king, a grand marriage of state attended by thousands. Time had not been kind to the mural, nor had the human hand. The king's face had been obliterated by the harsh battering of a chisel. The queen's features, still lovely despite the faded paint, remained untouched.
A large bed, its frame rotted and collapsed on one side stood against the far wall. The mattress had disintegrated, chewed away by nesting mice. A single chair, still intact, occupied space near the cold hearth. The musty smell blanketing the chamber lightened with the cooling breeze drifting in from two broken windows.
Imogen didn’t care about the neglect. She’d been prepared to sleep outside on the ground. Now, she had shelter—a roof over her head and some measure of protection from the elements. As it was, she was so tired from her journey and the shock of actually finding the Undying King, she’d happily sleep on the floor, wrapped in her cloak.
Cededa gestured toward the chair. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll return with fresh water to drink and more to wash off the road dirt.” He looked to the pack tied to her back. “Do you still have rations? If not, I can hunt.”
She leaned her walking stick against one wall and shrugged the pack off drooping shoulders. Exhaustion set in, and she squinted at Cededa with blurry eyes. Sleep, more than hunger, called to her now. "I have enough for two more days, thank you, but the wash water would be most welcome.”
He left her to get comfortable, promising to return with the water. Imogen used the brief solitude to explore the solar. She eyed the mural that ran from one corner of the room to the other. A great wedding. An elegant bride. A crowned king with long blond hair and a ruined face, his pride and hauteur evident in his erect carriage, even in the flat rendition of his likeness on the limed wall.
She drew closer to the mural. Her fingers traced light patterns over the scarred stone where the king’s face had once been painted. Like the statue on the bridge, this had been purposefully defaced and with such violence she shivered and pulled away. The chair by the hearth beckoned, and she sank into it, relieved the fragile wood held under her weight. Her feet throbbed, and her back hurt. Teased by the air drifting in from the window, she picked at her heavy clothing before shedding the cloak, hat and gloves.Her skirts and shift still stuck to her, but at least the draft cooled her hot skin.
She leaned her head back against the chair’s top rail and waited for Cededa. Exhaustion settled in. Days of travel and sleepless nights spent outside in the cold had taken their toll. The chair felt wondrous, as luxurious as a plump mattress. She settled deeper into the seat and closed her eyes. Just a moment or two. That’s all she needed; then she would explore the room more thoroughly. Just a moment...
CHAPTER NINE
Still reeling inwardly at his first taste of mortality in more than a hundred lifetimes, Cededa leaned against the door frame and watched his guest slumber. Darkness, thick as blood and headier than poison-laced mead had rushed through him in a black wave when he pressed his fingers to Imogen's smooth skin. The sensation had almost brought him to his knees.
He'd lost count of the times he prayed for death. But gods long vanished didn't hear his entreaties; the vengeful ghosts who kept company with him in the silent city did, and their spectral mockery held no mercy. Yet something heard—and answered. The proof sat slumped in a chair, snoring softly, unaware of his scrutiny.
Her curse offered him the hope of salvation, of a true and everlasting sleep, where Tineroth's constant voice would be forever silenced and the Living Waters finally ran dry in his veins. The prideful part of him wanted to assure her he could indeed rid her of her burden and the burden of his own immortality. He was, after all, the Undying King. A mage, a great warrior. Powerful. Eternal. Instead, he'd offered a sliver of hope—the "might" in his answer and a time frame of four months. If he couldn’t break the curse by then, he’d admit defeat and send her home before the city once again vanished between time and worlds, his debt to Niamh still outstanding.
Cededa's hard gaze swept the chamber. His second consort’s solar must seem grand beyond imagining to a village girl raised in solitude by her hedgewitch mother. He'd followed the path of her wide-eyed admiration, remembering the chamber as it once was when Helena held court here, her beauty the stuff of song and legend.
She’d been his favorite wife, and he had loved her as much as his shriveled, avaricious heart allowed. It hadn’t been enough. He turned away from the mural, refusing to think on a wife now no more than dust.
The sinuous mist greeting Imogen at the bridge curled around his ankles, caressing his calves and knees. It had followed him into the chamber, spreading across the floor until it flooded the space in a shallow sea.
“Make it livable for our guest,” he ordered, and the mist obeyed. Vaporous bindweeds slithered across the bed, sparking spectral lights of indigo and green as they curled over split wood. In their wake, the wood gleamed, as if newly made and polished. Where only broken slats once lay in disarray, a plump feather tick filled the middle space, complete with silk pillows and bedding woven of finely spun thread. Curtains hung from the canopy, and nearby a table bearing a pitcher and basin brimming with water appeared, followed by a stack of drying cloths and a goblet.
The mist gathered itself and slid along the walls as if to repair the faded murals. “Leave it.” Cededa’s sharp command halted its movements before it rolled back toward the door.
